Fear and Shame
by Scribble2Much
Summary: When Sam tries to cover up what Dean suspects is a serious medical condition, Dean starts to snoop and finds out more than he can handle. Set in Season 1. #5 in the Bicycle Verse.
1. Intuition

**Fear and Shame**

**Summary**: When Sam tries to cover up what Dean suspects is a serious medical condition Dean starts to snoop and finds out more than he can handle. Set in Season 1. #5 in the Bicycle Verse.

**A/N:** I've been itching to get back to the Bicycle Verse for a while. You guys know what it's like here, poor Sam can't catch a break. So for those who have been craving some sick, tormented Sam, enjoy! And for those who like over protective, caring big brother Dean, enjoy too!

Also, if you want to catch up on the other stories in the **Bicycle Verse **you can read **#1 Like Riding A Bicycle, #2 Sickbed Confessions, #3 You Watch My Back, I Watch Yours** and **#4 What Never Will Be**. All these stories are set in Season 1 when the boys have just reunited after Sam's sojourn at Stanford.

**A/N:** Let's journey back in time to Season 1.

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**ONE**

**Intuition**

Dean was used to Sam's nightmares; so he knew instinctively that this wasn't one. This was different. Moreover, on a scale of one to ten this was a million times worst.

On countless prior occasions Dean had been awakened by Sam's loud cries and thrashing as his brother fought for release from the grips of a bad dream. He'd seen Sam wrestle in the darkness, kicking the air and tossing as he struggled against imaginary tormentors. So when the sound of Sam's deep, frantic gasping pulled Dean out of his own slumber, he assumed that sleep had taken his brother on an unpleasant journey yet again. And although he woke up slightly disoriented, the sound of Sam heaving heavily had Dean on his feet almost instantly. In a few quick moves he was at Sam's side, switching on the night lamp as he sat on the edge of his brother's bed.

Throughout their childhood and even into adolescence, Sam had been plagued by awful night terrors. Over the years, Dean had rescued his little brother from the clutch of many cruel dreams. When Sam had been younger he was usually extremely clingy when he woke up from a nightmare. In those days, Dean usually ended up holding him until he went back to sleep, and staying with him in case he woke up again.

Knowing how frightening dreams could terrify Sam, Dean had hoped that his little brother's sleeping patterns would normalize as he got older. Unfortunately, Sam's troubles with bad dreams continued into his teen years. During that phase, Sam would pretend there was no lingering fear when Dean woke him up, but his eyes usually said something different. So Dean took to sitting with Sam and talking to him until he went back to sleep. And although Sam's teenaged pride wouldn't allow him to cuddle, for Dean it was a telling sign that his little brother always fell asleep with his hand resting on Dean's arm or his chest.

Then came the unhappy period, before Sam ran off to Stanford, when tension and resentment had coloured the brothers' relationship. During that time whenever Dean woke Sam up from a bad dream, his little brother would just grunt, turn away from him and pull up the covers as if the sheets could block Dean out.

Now, after being back on the road together for eight months, Dean wasn't sure what response he would get when he woke Sam up. However, when he turned on the bedside lamp, and the small fluorescent bulb cast its dull glow on Sam, Dean knew immediately he wasn't dealing with a nightmare. Sam was sitting up in bed, against the headboard, breathing frenziedly as if he thought the air in the room would run out. This wasn't a dream; Dean realized as a disconcerted chill, ran up his spine. Sam was wide awake and he was terrified.

"Sammy?" Dean could hear the slight trembling in his own voice as he tried to make a quick assessment of his little brother's condition.

The glazed look in Sam's eyes did nothing to quell Dean's mounting sense of fear. Worse yet, the flushed face, red from laboured breathing, the hair damp from sweat, and the tears filling up the corners of Sam's eyes set off every alarm in Dean's big brother surveillance system.

"Hey," Dean said, making an effort to keep his voice gentle. "What's wrong?"

Sam didn't even look at his brother. Instead he brought his hands to his chest, drawing long, deep breaths that signalled he was bordering on a full-fledged case of hyperventilation.

"Sammy?" Dean's tone was now more urgent, but he still couldn't quite get his brother's attention. "Look at me."

The instruction went unheeded, but the command seemed to have a deleterious effect. Sam started trembling, then he leaned forward and hugged his bent legs to his chest. He rested his head on his knees and held on tight, fighting desperately to steady himself.

Dean hesitated briefly wondering which Sam he was dealing with now. He knew for sure it wasn't the child who found instant comfort in his big brother's embrace. Nor was it the young teenager who still needed some form of physical contact with his big brother to truly believe he would be OK. But one thing was for sure, Dean knew he couldn't stand it if it was the prickly young adult who, even in the face of obvious distress, would turn away.

So Dean hesitated, knowing the very real possibility existed that if he reached out to Sam, his brother would brush him off and turn away. With his father's disappearance, Sam was all there was and Dean didn't want to risk being rejected by the only family he had left.

This was all still very new territory for both of them. They were getting to know one another again as adults after living apart for almost four years. On top of that, their split had been acrimonious and at times they had both felt the tension from the unresolved issues simmer near the surface. Although for the most part they had been getting along, Dean often wondered when the old resentments would resurface. And if they did, he feared they would drive them apart again.

However, the issue at hand was finding out what the hell was happening to Sam now and how he could stop it. From Dean's immediate observations Sam was in pretty bad shape and his big brother instincts just wouldn't let him comfort from a distance in the face of such obvious distress. So, risking the recoil, Dean quickly repositioned himself on the bed so he could drape a hand across his brother's back.

"Just breathe," he coaxed. "Just breathe deeply. It's alright."

Dean felt the tension in Sam's shoulders as his brother reacted to the contact. The stiffening was a blow to Dean's heart, not to mention his ego. Disappointed, he was about to pull away when suddenly he felt the weight of Sam's head as it came to rest against his chest. It didn't take a second for Dean to bring his arms up around Sam and pull him in gently.

He kept his hold loose not wanting to scare or smother Sam who was still breathing heavily and shaking hard. Sam was trembling so violently in Dean's arms that Dean was afraid his little brother's bones would shatter.

Squashing his own fears, Dean tried to coax Sam to calmness, hoping desperately that his voice would do the trick.

"Sammy listen to me," Dean used the soothing, tender tone that had talked Sam out of a thousand bad dreams throughout his childhood and adolescence.

But this time, Dean couldn't say it was only a dream because whatever was bedevilling Sam was attacking while he was wide awake. So, he resorted to another timeless utterance of comfort. "I'm right here. Everything is going to be alright."

Somewhere in the heaving and panting Dean heard it. It was said so softly that initially he was tempted to dismiss it as his imagination. But the three words set of an alarm bell in his mind and drove fear deep into the recesses of his heart.

"It's happening again," Sam had whispered, his voice trembling as he struggled to catch his breath.

Instantly, Dean knew his instincts had been right. Something was definitely wrong with his brother, but what? He swallowed down the query, knowing the most important thing now was getting Sam to calm down.

The questioning would have to come later; now, Dean had to stop his brother from giving himself a heart attack.

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**TO BE CONTINUED**


	2. Suspicion

**A/N: **Thanks for the reviews, alerts and favourites, I hope you enjoy the next chapter.

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**TWO**

**Suspicion**

If it hadn't been so damn frightening, it probably would have been amusing. Sam Winchester, a young man who'd had to fight a wide variety of evil in his short lifetime was about to be murdered by four walls. He'd been lying on an uncomfortable motel room bed, willing sleep to take him over when suddenly, he had come under attack.

His first line of defence was to try to block it out. He knew he could stave off the terror if he focused his mental energies on something – anything – but the pending attack. So he lay quietly in the darkness and systematically tried to remember the names of all fifty states, in alphabetical order.

Mental list-making had always been an effective means of distraction. However, this time, Sam only made it as far as Delaware before the concrete started closing in on him. Desperate, he looked upward in the blackness to the ceiling but realised too late, it was about to cave in.

The second resort was to scream for help, but the sound caught in his throat and no amount of effort could get it out. In the same way, no amount of effort could pull air into his lungs as his chest got more constricted with each attempt to breathe.

Then came the worst part, the foot with the heavy led boot coming down on his ribcage, compressing his chest so his heart couldn't beat. When flight and fight collided within him, cancelling each other out to leave him weak and helpless, Sam felt certain he would die.

He must have made a sound, or telegraphed some kind of distress signal, because just as he came to the edge of his sanity, a small light flickered on and then his brother was beside him. When Dean started speaking to him, Sam could hear his voice but he couldn't decipher what was being said. However, he knew one thing for sure, if anyone could get him through this it was his big brother.

So when Dean gripped Sam's chin and raised his head so they were face to face, although he was weak and disoriented, Sam forced himself to look at his brother. Then Dean used his other hand to anchor Sam's face so he couldn't turn away.

"Sam, listen to me." It was the tone more than the words that got through to Sam. Dean was issuing an order. "Breathe!"

Under instructions, Sam heaved deeply and was beyond relieved to feel, the sweet sensation of air sneaking into his lungs.

"That's it." Sam could detect his actions were earning Dean's approval. "Just breathe Sammy, just like that."

The next few attempts had the air flowing more freely and Sam sighed with grateful relief as his lungs filled up. The act of breathing was something he had learned not to take for granted.

"Listen to me," Dean looked into his eyes again. "You're alright. Whatever it is, you're going to be OK."

Sam let his head drop against Dean's chest and welcomed the comfort of having his big brother stroke his hair. The tender touch brought back a million fond childhood memories and instantly transmitted a sense of safety. He wasn't sure how long he stayed huddled against Dean but Sam refused to pull away until he knew for certain that the horror was completely over.

However, with calm came the full realisation of what Dean had just witnessed. Sam knew there would be questions but he also knew he wasn't ready to give any answers.

Without any warning Sam suddenly drew back from his brother.

"I'm OK," he said quickly.

To Dean it sounded like his little brother was trying to convince himself.

"Let me be the judge of that," Dean said, and his inspection began.

He used his palm to wipe the flood of sweat from his brother's forehead and then felt for signs of fever.

Knowing he couldn't risk a close range examination from Dean now, Sam pushed his sibling's hand away.

"Don't hover," he said gruffly.

Unprepared for the rebuff, Dean flinched. It tore at Sam to see the hurt flare in his brother's eyes but he couldn't allow the scrutiny when he was in this condition.

"Please," Sam tried to apologise. "Just give me a moment."

Turning away, Sam swung his feet over the side of the bed. He looked around, searchingly until he saw his duffle, then he leaned over and dug in the bag urgently.

"Hey," Dean leaned forward to put a hand on Sam's arm. "What do you need?"

"It's OK," Sam looked up quickly, eyes wide like a child that had been caught red-handed.

"No, it's not." Dean's concern was now approaching worry. "Sammy, tell me what's wrong."

"I just gotta take a shower and cool down. I'll be fine."

Sam pulled sweats and a clean T-shirt out of the bag but not before he deftly slipped something between the garments. The swift move would have gone undetected by most people; but it didn't escape Dean's hunter's eye. In fact, the sneaky manoeuvre had been a warning sign to Dean.

Oblivious to his brother's detection, Sam zipped his bag shut, made for the bathroom and locked himself in. For Dean, the click of the lock was another indicator that something was seriously wrong. Usually a closed door was all the brothers used to convey a wish for privacy. When a lock was employed it was a sure sign that whatever act was being carried out behind the door was something the perpetrator wished to keep secret.

Under most circumstances, Dean would have allowed Sam his privacy. But after what he'd just witnessed, privacy was a luxury they couldn't afford. So no sooner did the door close than he was up against it listening. The first thing he heard was a pop that sounded like a pill bottle being opened. Seconds later Dean could hear a running faucet and quickly concluded that his brother must have taken a tablet of some kind.

Next came a series of deep, long breaths capped off by a frustrated sigh. After that another faucet creaked and then Dean heard the sound of water pouring out of the shower. Dean stayed against the door a little longer in case he heard anything else out of the ordinary. But when there was nothing to indicate anything was going on but a run-of-the-mill shower, he turned from the door and went back to his bed to wait.

When Sam came out of the bathroom he meant to head straight for his bed. But when he saw his brother sitting there with an expectant look on his face, there was an instant change of plans.

"I'm going for a walk," he said, shoving his feet into his shoes and exiting the room without even looking over his shoulder.

"No you're not," Dean got up to go after his brother. "You're going to tell me what's wrong with you and then you're going back to bed."

"Stop treating like I'm a five year old," Sam growled, and he quickened his steps, still hoping to escape.

Unfortunately for Sam, there really wasn't anywhere to go. The motel was a basic block of rooms in the middle of nowhere. On top of that his exhaustion level wasn't exactly conducive to a lengthy journey, so he went to the Impala.

Exasperated, Dean watched as Sam stepped out into the biting night air. Before he followed, he stopped to grab his brother's jacket first and then his own. When Dean reached out into the parking lot, he saw Sam leaning back against the Impala's sturdy frame with his eyes closed. There were tuffs of smoke by Sam's lips as he breathed slowly and deeply in what looked like a practiced rhythm.

Dean stopped a short distance away to really take in the sight of his sibling. It was at moments like this that he wondered how someone could be six, feet four of solid muscle and still look so damn vulnerable. Maybe it was because at one point this giant had been a clingy little boy who had been totally dependent on his big brother. Instinctively, Dean had always known how to give that child exactly what he needed. However the grown man in front of him was proving difficult to figure out.

"Here," Dean held up the jacket, so he could help Sam into it.

As he slid his arms into the sleeves, Sam couldn't help but linger for a few seconds when he felt Dean's hands on his shoulders. Physical contact with his big brother had always made him feel more grounded.

"How're you feeling?" Dean asked, turning Sam to face him.

Right then, Sam wished he was ten years old again so he could just lean on his brother and draw strength and comfort from Dean's reassuring presence. Right then, all Sam wanted was for Dean to tell him everything would be O.K.

But he was a grown man now and he couldn't keep running to Dean and expect his big brother to sort out his problems.

"I'm OK," Sam couldn't quite manage to meet Dean's gaze as he told the lie.

Noting the evasion, Dean held Sam's chin to force him to make eye contact. It was when their eyes locked that Dean saw the fear and a cold blast of nerves surged through his stomach at the recognition.

Something was definitely wrong with Sam.

For his part, Sam recognized the look Dean was giving him and knew his big brother was moving into protective mode.

"I'm OK." Sam tried to neutralize Dean before the interrogation could start.

"No you're not. In fact, I think you and OK are at opposite polls of the freaking universe right about now."

"Aren't you being a little melodramatic?"

"No. Tell me what's going on?"

"Nothing. I just had a really bad nightmare."

"Now you see, I think I've seen just about every iteration of your really bad nightmares and that wasn't one."

"Oh so you're an expert on my nightmares now?"

"Yeah, and your damn headaches, your allergies and just about everything that's ever hurt you, made you sick or tried to kill you in the first eighteen years of your life. And whatever happened to you tonight is something I've never seen before but obviously you have, so spill it."

"There's nothing to spill. I think our last hunt just got me spooked, that's all."

"Sam our last hunt was a salt and burn where the damn vengeful spirit didn't even put up a fight. What's so scary about that?"

Shrugging helplessly, Sam turned away. "Why won't you just accept that I had a really bad dream?"

"Because for one thing you were wide awake and still freaking out. And two, nightmares don't usually have you pill popping afterwards."

"They do if they give me a freaking headache Dean."

"And since when do you have to hide in the bathroom to take a Tylenol Sam?"

"I wouldn't have to if we weren't in each other's armpits all the time. Honestly, Dean, I feel like the only time I have any personal space is when I'm in the damn bathroom."

"Nice try Sam, but you're not going to throw me off of what's really going on here. We may not have been around each other for four years but I can still tell when something's up with you; and this one feels bad. Now whatever it is you can tell me, you know that."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Like hell there isn't," Dean felt his anger rising; but he knew getting upset would only make Sam dig his heals in so he pleaded instead. "Come on Sammy, you're freaking me out here."

"Dean," Sam's toned also softened. "I'm OK. I didn't mean to freak you out; but you gotta believe me man."

At his wit's end, Dean conceded. "Alright. If you can look at me and tell me honestly, that you're OK. I'll drop it."

"I'm OK," Sam said without missing a beat.

But Dean had a way of looking beyond his little brother's words. There were other things he used to tell what Sam was really thinking and feeling, the most revealing of which had always been his eyes. Now, those eyes were reflecting worry and dread; and it went against the core of who Dean was to let that slide.

However, Dean recognised a dead-end when he saw one. Sam wasn't going to budge on this, at least, not tonight; so he figured it was best back down for now.

"Alright Sammy," Dean temporarily conceded. "We'll leave it at that."

Relieved to have headed off the inquisition, Sam turned to walk back to the motel room. "Let's get some sleep."

"Good idea," Dean followed behind him. "You look exhausted."

"Yeah, I do feel pretty beat up. But with a good night's sleep I'll be fine."

"Well rest up because we got two days of driving before we get to Bobby's."

"What did he say he wants us for again?"

"He needs us to fill in for him. He's on the other side of the country and Buck McGhee and his nephew Race have a hunt that needs a crew."

"Awesome," Sam said dryly.

"Look, we can always give it a pass. If you're tired maybe we should just take a couple days off."

Sam seriously considered backing out of the hunt. He really didn't feel up to it and he knew he had a responsibility to let Dean know. Honesty was a critical element in the hunters' code. A man had a right to know if the person guarding his back wasn't up to the job. So if you were sick, injured or libel to crack under pressure, the rules were you either fessed up or made a good excuse to get off the job. Sam knew this more than anyone else and had always lived by it. After all, his partner was his big brother and he would die before he put Dean at risk.

But if he pulled out now, it would only serve to underscore Dean's suspicions that something was wrong with him. And he couldn't risk fanning that flame.

"I'm up for the hunt Dean," Sam lied. "I said I was OK and I meant it."

Against his better judgement, Dean took Sam at his word. Afterwards, when he had to pick up the pieces, Dean bitterly regretted that decision.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	3. Apprehension

**A/N: **Thanks for all the feedback and support. Enjoy the next chapter.

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**THREE **

**Apprehension**

It was a tricky hunt, but they had a plan that was supposed to put them ahead of the game. The monster in question was a Wrenner, which according to the lore was a pretty angry manifestation of the Velociraptor. The only way to kill it was a poison dart to the chest; but the creature was such a lethal predator that close contact was out of the question.

The Wrenner fed at night and spent its days sleeping in a ragged nesting cave. Its usual method of attack was to fly over and land facing its prey, then use its claws to tear the victim's guts out. If the victim tried to run, the Wrenner would take flight and snatch them up by the shoulders. Next up would be the most unpleasant flight of the prey's soon to be ended life. Because, after several moments of being jerked around in mid-air, the victim was usually thrown to the grown and devoured. Either way, it was a nasty, gruesome way to die.

The master plan was to lure the Wrenner out of the cave and then strike. The weapon of choice was an archer's bow with a dart, liberally doused in poison, attached to it. Dean, Buck McGhee and his nephew Race were to execute a series of manoeuvres, including setting a fire in the cave, to draw the creature out. Once it was free it was up to Sam, the most skilled bowman in the group, to get the job done.

Everyone had agreed on the plan, except for Sam.

"I think we're taking the wrong approach," he said when the four men were seated at Bobby's kitchen table finalising their strategy.

"And what exactly is wrong with our, 'approach'?" Buck McGhee raised an eyebrow in Sam's direction. When it came to hunting, Buck had been in the game even longer than John and Bobby so he didn't give much consideration to interventions from youngsters like Sam.

"The way we're looking to do this now once the Wrenner gets out of the cave the three of you are live bait," Sam explained.

"Well that's what we got you for Sam," Race, chipped in. He was just a little older than Dean but although all three boys had been raised as hunters they hadn't been much fraternising over the years. "If it gets out you finish him and then we're back here sipping beer in no time. "

"Plus we can use blow torches to keep it off," Dean offered. "All the lore says Wrenners hate fire."

"And how long you think that will last?" Sam was anxious to get them to see reason.

"Long enough for you to make the shot," Race replied easily.

"This creature moves at the speed of light Race."

"I know it's fast, I read up on it too," Race retorted. "You Winchesters aren't the only hunters that can do research you know."

"Well if you learnt anything from what you read, you'd know that this thing can fly out, swoop down and grab anyone of you before I get a shot off."

"Look Sam," Dean reasoned. "It's a calculated risk we have to take."

"Dean," Sam turned to his brother. "There's a big chance that you might get grabbed by this thing and I've got a big problem with that."

Disgusted, Race grunted loudly. "So you're saying the rest of us could be chicken feed but it's only your precious big brother that you care about?"

"No," Sam tore his gaze away from Dean to look at the irritated young hunter. "I don't want anyone taking that risk."

"You let us worry about our own risks," Buck came in. "The big question here is; are you as good at this as your brother here says you are?"

"Sammy's the only one I know who can hit a bull's-eye three times in a row," Dean was brimming with confidence. "So if someone's got a better average he better speak up now."

"I guess that settles it," Buck concluded. "Sam, you're our trigger man."

However, the role didn't sit well with Sam; so much so that throughout the drive to the nesting cave his heart was drumming so hard he thought it would break through his chest walls. As they were approaching the location, Sam made a last ditch attempt to reason with his brother.

"I don't feel good about this," he said.

"Well I do," Dean shrugged. "As long as you're the one behind the bow."

That had been the end of the matter, so Sam tried to shake off his doubts as he took up position on a small hill directly opposite the mouth of the cave. In the agonizing waiting period he couldn't stop his mind from contemplating all the ways this hunt could go wrong. As usual, the worst case scenario was that Dean wouldn't make it out; and that was a thought, he just couldn't stand.

Sam sighed loudly when he considered that, once again, the only thing between his brother and death was him. Of all the things he disliked about hunting, having people's lives in his hands was what troubled him the most. And his distress was one hundred times more severe when the person in question was his big brother.

As Sam continued to wait, what started as a nervous flutter in his stomach escalated into nauseous anxiety. Breathing hard, Sam tried to forcefully induce calm.

Dean was right; archery was his thing and he could hit targets with his eyes closed in practise. But this wasn't a damn drawing of circles nailed up on a stick in a field, this was a crooked clawed, blood thirsty predator that would tear his brother's guts out and eat them before Dean even realised he was dead. Sam knew, with disturbing certainty, he had to be on top of his game.

As the chilling realisation settled into his bones, Sam broke out in a cold sweat and his breathing slowed to laboured gasps. Moving robotically, he dropped the bow beside him and pulled up his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead and face. Weakened by the mental pounding of growing fear, Sam cowered to the ground, fighting to catch his breath.

He was lying on the dirt, hands shaking and heart racing, when he heard his brother's call.

"Sam!" Dean's yell sounded out as he emerged from the cave in an out and out sprint. "Sam get ready!"

With superhuman effort Sam dragged himself up and reached for the bow. He turned to face the cave and positioned himself to shoot; but his hands were shaking so hard, he could keep the weapon straight.

When the familiar sensation of unbearable pressure started building up in his chest, Sam dropped his head trying to stave off the wave of nausea that was knocking him over. With his vision blurring and his breath stopping, Sam fought a losing battle to aim the bow at the front of the cave where the Wrenner was expected to emerge in seconds.

By the time Race and Buck chased out after Dean, Sam was near-fainting. However, when he heard the noisy swoosh of the Wrenner's exit he forced himself to focus.

"Now Sam!" Dean yelled, finding an even faster gear as he ran for his life. "Shoot!"

But Sam didn't have the strength in his arm to pull back the arrow. Praying hard, he tried to steady himself to manipulate the bow. However, the commands being sent by his mind just weren't registering with his hand.

Obviously aggravated by the smoke and the fire, the Wrenner took flight after Dean. Breathless to the point of suffocation, Sam could only watch as the creature latched its claws to his brother's shoulders. Then came the loud scream of shock and pain as Dean was lifted off the ground.

"Sam!" Buck McGhee shouted. "What the hell are you waiting for boy? _Shoot the damn thing_."

Sam released the bow and clutched at his heart. The Wrenner had Dean; and if he shot it now, it would drop his brother and it wouldn't be a happy landing.

Dean managed to manipulate his blow torch gun and blazed it upwards at his captor. The Wrenner shrieked loudly and release Dean as it took off in flight. There was an audible thud as Dean fell to the ground and then lay there motionless.

"Sam!" Now both Buck and Race were screaming in unison.

"Shoot you damn idiot!" Buck added for good measure.

Screeching angrily, the Wrenner rounded on the men. This time, the victim was Buck whose excessive screaming seemed to have attracted the creature's attention. The Wrenner lined up its prey and dipped in flight in an attempt to snatch Buck, but the veteran hunter was quick to fire up his torch. Then, rather than running Buck managed to keep the creature at bay, blazing fire to frustrate the beast.

Seizing the opportunity, Race ran up the hillside to Sam's would-be vantage point. The young hunter was horrified to find Sam had dropped his weapon and was cowering on the ground instead of defending their lives.

"Holy mother of God," he swore practically shoving Sam out of the way so he could grab the discarded bow. In a series of quick moves he positioned himself, readied the weapon and fired.

It took him a few tries but eventually he hit home and the Wrenner fell from flight, wailing its last cry. When he was sure the creature was dead, Race turned on Sam with blazing fury.

"What the hell is wrong with you fool?" He spat. "You almost got us killed."

"Dean," was all Sam said as he struggled to get to his feet.

Race had a good mind to whack Sam across the head with the bow.

"Oh, so your brother is the only one you can think about? Well I'll have you know you damn near a got him killed a few minutes ago."

"No," Sam looked down the hillside and saw Dean laying eerily still on the ground with Buck stooping beside him shaking him. "Oh god, Dean."

Running on adrenaline, Sam was on his feet and rushing to his brother. He pushed Buck away to get the best vantage point and began hitting Dean's cheek gently to wake him up. "Dean? Can you hear me?"

When Dean shook his head and groaned shakily, the first wave of relief washed over Sam.

"Sammy?" Dean's eyes fluttered open.

"That would be me," Sam tried to sound calm but his heart was still racing at an alarming speed. "Can you sit up?"

"I think so," Dean mumbled and let his brother pull him into an upright position. "What happened?"

"I'll tell you what happen," Buck pushed into the conversation. "Your genius brother here..."

"Shut up!" Sam rounded on Buck and the rage that flared across his face was enough to temporarily silence the older hunter. "I need some quiet while I check if he's OK."

It took all of Sam's will power to keep his own nerves under control and focus on the task at hand, but he quickly checked for broken bones and signs of concussion. His mind was moving at a mile a minute as he tried to figure out how to get Dean away from the blabbering McGhees before the extent of his malfunction was revealed to his brother.

From Sam's assessment, Dean's biggest issue was the gashes on his shoulders where the Wrenner had latched on when it took him for the ride.

"I gotta get him out of here," Sam seized the opportunity his brother's injuries presented. "I have to clean and dress these cuts before infection sets in."

By now Race had made it back to the group with the bow in his hand and rage on his face.

"You two stay here and burn and bury the remains," Sam ordered helping his brother up. "I'm taking Dean back to Bobby's."

Dean didn't say much during the drive back and as soon as they arrived at Bobby's Sam sat him down on the couch and cut his shirt off. When Sam saw the deep wounds in his brother's shoulders he couldn't hold back the horrified sigh or the sudden spring of tears.

"Oh God," Sam dropped his head as his eyes filled. "Dean, I'm so sorry."

"Hey," Dean was taken aback by Sam's reaction to the cuts. "I'm OK. This isn't your fault. Wrenners are nasty bastards; we knew that going in."

But Sam was only too aware that what his brother didn't know was that the attack had been Sam's fault. If he had been responsive, the Wrenner would have been dead before it had a chance to get to Dean.

"I'm sorry," Sam said wincing and shaking his head. "Dean, I never meant for you to get hurt. I can't stand it when you get hurt."

Still lightheaded from the flight and fall, Dean tried to process the extreme emotions pouring out of his brother. They had grown up hunting; injuries were simply part of the scene. And regardless of what went down they never blamed one another for any damage sustained on the job.

"Sammy," Dean said softly. "It's O.K. I would never blame you for this."

The words were meant to reassure but instead they left Sam wincing.

"It's my fault, Dean," he whispered, sounding like he was choking up.

"No, it's not," Dean insisted; but because his overgrown brother seemed so frail now, he kept his voice soft. "You know the rules, we don't toss blame around. We just patch each other up and move on."

When Sam's only response was to look more distraught, Dean leaned forward to rest his forehead against his brother's.

"It's OK Sammy," he soothed. "Just patch me up and we're good."

With trembling hands and a heavy heart, Sam cleaned, dressed and bandaged Dean's wounds. He was putting on the last of the protective tape when he heard Buck and Race letting themselves into the kitchen.

Anxious to prevent Dean from getting a debriefing, Sam got to his feet. "I'll go get rid of them," he told his brother. "You stay here."

"Come on Sammy," Dean tried to get up to join him. "It's not like I'm laid up or anything. Maybe we can all have a few beers before they have to hit the road."

"No," Sam insisted, gently easing Dean back down to the couch. "You need to rest; I'll take care of them."

"Whatever you say nurse," Dean complied.

He put up his legs, closed his eyes and waited for Sam to come back. With the hunt out of the way now, they could probably take a few days off and chill. Bobby wouldn't be back for about a week and he wouldn't mind if they stayed on for a few days. The issue was settled in Dean's head when it occurred to him that Sam was taking a while to return. Curious as to what was keeping his brother, Dean got up and walked quietly towards the kitchen.

He soon found Sam, listening outside the kitchen door. Dean meant to ask him why he was eavesdropping but when Sam looked at him, the words died on his lips. Sam's face was flushed and his eyes were filling up. Before Dean could ask what was wrong, he caught on to Buck and Race's conversation.

"I'm telling you Uncle Buck," Race was dishing like a damn town gossip. "Sam couldn't even fire off the freaking bow. When I got to him he was on the ground panting and squirming like some kinda wounded animal."

"You're kidding me right?"

"Scout's honest truth; he was freaking out like a girl in a horror movie."

"So what the hell happened to him?"

"Beats me. Seems like he was having one of them panic attacks."

"Panic attack? What the hell would he be panicking for he's been hunting since he could walk straight."

"Yeah," Race drawled scornfully. "Everyone knows John started training Sam and Dean from they got out of diapers. But for all John's effort to make them fearless, I think Sammy boy is starting cracking under the pressure."

"He's a Winchester; he was born to deal with pressure. And this life ain't exactly pretty but he should just get through it the way the rest of us do; after a bad hunt you throw back a bottle of whiskey, spend a day sleeping off the hangover and then wake up and find the next thing to kill."

"Yeah. Who the hell does that Sam think he is; some damn Fortune 500 sharpie?"

Race's remark had his uncle laughing out loud.

"I mean, blow me over with a feather," Race continued, encouraged by Buck's amusement. "Panic attacks are for those sissies on Wall Street who have to go see an overpriced shrink if their bonus drops by one cent."

"Say," Buck cackled, well entertained by his nephew's musings. "Didn't he run off to Harvard or some fancy school like that?"

"Stanford," Race supplied grudgingly.

"Well that's what you get for going to Stanford; the wimp couldn't even pull it together to shoot the thing that was about have his brother for a late night snack."

"Damn straight," Race agreed. "And all this time John was building his mighty army of three and strutting around acting like the Winchesters were the royal family of hunting and his boys were better than all the rest of us."

"And for all of that, his sorry little son's here letting down the family name," Buck sounded thrilled. "No wonder no one's seen that bastard John in months, he probably can't face the rest of us."

"Come to think of it," Race echoed his uncle's glee. "If I had a son like Sam I'd be in hiding too. Serves John damn right."

A sickening feeling coursed through Dean's stomach as he heard his brother draw a deep trembling breath beside him. He turned to look at Sam and saw his sibling was red-faced with shame.

He reached out to put his hand on Sam's arm but Sam shrank from the touch. With tears streaming from his eyes, Sam shook his head dejectedly, wincing with mortification. Dean saw the tears and knew immediately what he had to do.

Buck didn't even realise Dean had entered the room until the fist connected with the side of his face and sent him crashing into the counter. Before the older man could even think to retaliate, Dean grabbed him by the collar and decked him with a solid right hook.

"What the hell was that for?" Race demanded, stepping up to Dean with a menacing glare.

"For making fun of my brother," Dean spat back. "Same as this."

The punch to the gut folded Race over like a sheet of paper. Even with that, for good measure, Dean upended his knee in the young man's groin.

The two men were on the floor groaning in agony but in case they were even thinking of retaliating Dean backed out his handgun and aimed it at them.

"Say one more word about my brother and it will be the last words either of you say before I end your useless lives," he growled.

"You gotta be outta your damn mind boy," Buck cried, rubbing his jaw.

Race just pulled himself back against Bobby's kitchen counters hoping to slip through the walls and get the hell out of dodge.

"You're right about that Buck," Dean admitted. "And neither of you will want to see how far out of it I can get. So why don't you both just get the hell out of here before I have two bodies to bury."

"You know," Buck's voice was bitter as gall. "There's no question that you're John Winchester's boy. You're as crazy as your old man."

"Shut the hell up," Race shrieked. "Don't you see he's serious?"

"I'm dead serious," Dean confirmed without flinching. "And you got five seconds to see just how crazy I am."

Dean cocked the gun sending the McGhees scrambling to their feet and fleeing without out another word. When the door slammed, Dean turned to Sam but his brother was nowhere in sight. Retracing his steps back into the living room, he also found it empty.

"Sam?" Dean called out, crossing the room and entering Bobby's study. There he saw that the backdoor that led out to the yard was ajar so he headed for it. "Sam?"

When Dean stepped out of the house, he saw his brother on Bobby's cluttered lawn, leaning over at the waist, breathing hard. He hesitated momentarily, then rushed forward when Sam's knees suddenly gave way and he fell to the ground. When Dean got to him Sam lay foetal, panting like a winded dog. Dropping down beside him, Dean tried to pull Sam upright but his brother sagged against him as lifeless as a rag doll.

"What the hell?" The question was directed at no one in particular but Dean had to voice his fear and frustration. Desperate, he pulled his little brother to him and held on tight while Sam just shuddered silently.

Dean still didn't know what he was dealing with much less what to say to make it better so he just hugged Sam hard. They sat together for quite some time until Sam stopped trembling and his breathing evened out.

As soon as it was clear the crisis had passed, Sam pulled away, got to his feet and began walking shakily towards the house. Startled, Dean took a few seconds to collect himself, then he got up and followed. By the time he reached inside, Sam had gone upstairs to their room and slammed the door shut.

Agitated as hell and scared more than he cared to admit, Dean banged on the door and screamed at his brother to open up.

"I'm not kidding Sammy," he yelled as he pounded. "Open the damn door before I kick it in."

When Sam did open the door, although Dean was angry as hell he still took a few moments to do a visual triage and satisfy himself that his brother was at least going to live before he tore into him. Sam looked subdued and was breathing normally but his glazed eyes and distant stare seemed to indicate it was a medication induced calm rather than genuine relaxation.

"I'm OK," Sam said but the slight slur in his voice gave Dean even more cause for concern.

"Like hell you are!" Dean said pushing past his sibling and entering the room.

"Just drop it Dean," Sam tried to walk away.

Dean grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. "What's wrong with you man?"

Sam could hear the desperation and the fear in his brother's voice. He knew Dean wouldn't let it go unless he said something but he had to be convincing.

"To be honest Dean, I don't know. I think I'm just stressed by everything that's happened and my body's reacting to it."

Shrugging helplessly, Sam sat on his bed and looked down at the floor. Dean went to him and they sat side by side, shoulders touching.

"I know it's been a rough couple of months for you with the fire and losing Jess and us not being able to find Dad. But is that all this is about Sam, or is there something more?"

"Does there need to be Dean?" Sam sounded helpless. "You said it yourself it's been a lot; and I really need some time to wrap my head, and my emotions around everything."

"Well if time is what you need then let's take a few days off. Bobby will be gone for more than a week, we can just stay here and chill out for a while."

"I'd really like that."

"Good, it's settled. So why don't you go downstairs and find us a movie to watch and I'll order delivery."

"Sounds like a plan," Sam said nudging Dean's shoulder affectionately. "Thanks bro."

"No problem."

Dean got to his feet, pulled Sam up and then the brothers walked out of the room. When they reached the top of the staircase, Dean hesitated.

"You go ahead, I gotta use the little boys."

Dean turned and went back to the bathroom, while Sam headed down the stairs. Once he was sure his little brother had reached the living room, Dean darted back into their bedroom.

He went straight to Sam's bed, grabbed his duffle and began digging around. When he didn't find anything out of the ordinary, Dean felt under the clothes, books and miscellaneous items to the bottom of the bag. Sure enough, his fingers ran over a thin flap along the bag's lining. Among the lessons John had taught his sons was how to create secret compartments. Dean dumped the bag's contents on the floor and then pulled back the inner flap. The covering concealed a single item, a small orange tinted prescription pill bottle.

The label said it was "Intramol" and the prescribing physician was Dr. Phillip Martin. Dean had never heard of the medication but what was most revealing was that Sam had apparently filled the prescription about three weeks ago.

"Dean!"

The call made Dean's heart jump, but he settled down in a few seconds when he realised it was coming from below the stairs.

"Be right down," he called quickly repacking the duffle and shoving it back beside Sam's bed where his brother had left it.

They weren't even half an hour into the movie before Sam was out cold. Testimony to the depth of his sleep was that he'd all but passed out on Dean's shoulder and didn't even budge when his brother slipped out from under him gingerly.

Dean laid Sam down gently on some cushions and covered him with a blanket and then went back up to their room. He left the door wide open to ensure he could hear any signs of movement downstairs well in advance so there would be no surprises. Then he grabbed Sam's laptop and sat on his bed.

Although he was a man that considered himself prepared for all eventualities, Dean's fingers were shaking when he ran the search on Intramol. From what he had seen of Sam over the last few days something was definitely wrong with his brother. And whatever it was, it seemed Sam was trying to address it with this medication. Discovering what the medicine could do was a big step towards finding out what the hell was dogging Sam.

When the search results flashed up on the screen Dean clicked on the first link and began to read.

_Intramol is one of the most powerful anti-anxiety drugs currently dispensed in the US. _

_It is mainly used as a last resort for patients whose severe, debilitating anxiety has not responded to lower grade anti-anxiety medications including Benzodiazepines and Barbiturates. _

_This highly potent medication is usually reserved for individuals who have been victims of severe trauma and it can only be prescribed for patients who are under psychiatric care. _

A destabilising fear gripped Dean's heart as he stared at the computer screen.

He knew one thing; he was through waiting for Sam to talk. He was going to get answers for himself.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	4. Investigation

**Author's Notes: **Now that I've finished "The Awful Truth", we can pick where we left off with this series. Enjoy.

Please note the medical information in this chapter is only the output of the author's active imagination.

Thanks again to my beta, Ericka Jane.

* * *

**FOUR**

**Investigation**

Dean's encounter with Holly Whitfield served as a dreadful reminder that hunting left scars. He came face to face with the young woman at her front door, and at first glance, his eyes had widened with appreciation. She had a face that would make any man pause to take it in, piercing blue eyes, and full lips that curved into an alluring pout. Liking the initial view, Dean's eyes dipped to take in the rest of her, but as soon as he caught sight of the stump where a shapely left leg should have been, his appreciative smile was replaced first by shock and then by pity.

The young woman's eyes clouded with embarrassment and then flared resentfully, a sure sign to Dean that she was used to this kind of reaction.

"If you're selling anything, I'm broke," she sniped, tossing her head and sending silky blond waves over her shoulder. "And if you're here to preach, my soul's already halfway to hell and I don't have the energy or the inclination to turn it back."

The greeting caught Dean by surprise, but he recovered soon enough.

"Actually, I'm here to see Holly Whitfield," he kept his tone casual and made sure his eyes were looking anywhere but down.

"Dean Winchester?" She asked, some of the hostility fading.

"Yes."

"Come in."

With a few shuffles she maneuvered herself back from the door and then swung on her crutches, leading Dean through a living room that would have been a prime candidate for one of those home makeover shows.

"This way," she ordered, her tone was businesslike as she propelled herself briskly. Dean noticed a graying man sitting on a La-Z-Boy, starring aimlessly into space. He didn't look old as much as aged.

"It's a client, Daddy," Holly called over her shoulder as she passed him. "We're heading to the office."

Dean noted there was no response, but the woman's domestic situation was the least of his concern; he was here on business.

Once they entered the office, his thoughts moved quickly to the task at hand. The room was a cluttered, jumble of confusion that reminded Dean of Bobby's study. Holly shuffled up to an oversized desk covered with books and papers, then turned to face him.

"What can I do for you today, Dean Winchester?"

He noted her tone was no longer hostile, just brisk and businesslike.

"I need to hack into a database and Bobby Singer says you're the best."

"That would be correct. How is he anyway?"

"Good."

"And your father?"

"You know my Dad?"

"Every hunter knows John Winchester. I've done some work for him, but I haven't heard from him in a while. I assume he's OK?"

"Dad's fine," Dean said quickly.

"Good. It's actually nice to meet you. John spoke about you and your brother once when I was working on something for him. He seemed really proud of both of you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, said you all could hold your own against pretty much anything. I told him if you could it's most likely because you two inherited his fearlessness."

She wasn't quick enough to keep the look of wonder from ghosting over her face. Dean swallowed against the awkward feelings stirring in his stomach at the thought of this girl, who was probably barely out of her teens, appearing to have a crush on his father.

"You're right about that," he said after clearing his throat. "He never has been and never will be afraid of anything."

Holly smiled and the sultriness that accompanied the expression told Dean that he was staring into the face of a siren. Yet rather than feeling enticed he only wondered if the subtle flirting skills were developed to compensate for the visible imperfection.

"Personally I really liked working with him, not every hunter can combine physical strength with intellectual prowess."

Dean didn't miss the challenge in her eye nor the implied question of how he himself would measure up on the Holly Whitfield scale of masculinity.

"In this line of work you need both the brain and the brawn to get the job done," he said simply hoping to head off any kind of advance.

His flat tone made his intentions clear, leaving Holly to revert to her curtness.

"Can't say I ever had the brawn," she quipped scornfully. "And I was a damn good hunter until..."

Once again, the striking face clouded with regret and shame but Holly quickly squared her shoulders and met Dean's eyes head-on to finish up, "Until that damn accident."

"You were a hunter?" Dean took in her small frame more closely. She couldn't have been more than five, three and she was definitely on the slender side.

"I still am," Holly declared, eyes flaring again. "I've been on the job since I was fourteen." My Mom got killed by a Wendigo when I was twelve and my Dad took up hunting after that. At first he kept it secret and tried to maintain the appearance of a normal life. But once he really got into it, he quit his job so he could be on the road. There was no one to leave me with so I got taken along for the ride. Eventually I learned to do my fair share."

"Fourteen?" Dean tried to lighten the mood with a little good natured teasing. "I started when I was ten. You're a slacker."

In spite of herself, Holly had to smile. "Well, I may have gotten off to a late start but my Dad made sure I made up for lost time. I think I hunted just about everything out there until I got taken off the frontline."

Dean was having a hard time linking the soldier-speak to the fragile woman-child in front of him. Something about the scenario seemed downright surreal.

"You lost your leg on a hunt?" he asked, keeping his tone even to avoid even a hint of pity. He figured showing concern would be like waving a red flag.

"I did," Holly nodded. "The Whitfield family has no luck with Wendigos."

"A Wendigo did that?"

"Yes. Before my Dad managed to take it out."

"That's a tough break," Dean kept his condolences concise.

"Well," Holly kept her game face on. "It just meant I had to find another way to stay in the game. Hence my little computer gig. I do research for hunters, crack code, hack into databases, that kinda thing."

"Then you'd love my brother, Sam. He likes the nerdy side of the business too."

"Well good for him." Holly sniffed, ruefully. "Maybe I can have one of his legs and we can trade places." The bitterness wasn't directed at Dean but he still felt its sting. "Being stuck behind a desk can never compare to being out there on the frontline taking those monsters out."

"But like you said, you're still in the game," Dean offered. "And what about your Dad? What's up with him?"

"He never recovered from my attack. I lost my leg but he lost his mind. I was the second person he cared about who he hadn't been able to save from a Wendigo. After I got out of the hospital, he just got more and more withdrawn. Eventually he stopped talking and now he just exists in his own mind. I guess it's safe there."

Although empathy was more Sam's forte, Dean felt the need to offer some form of comfort.

"You know you're very lucky to be alive," he tried. "People don't usually live to tell about it when they encounter one of those nasty bastards."

For all Holly's efforts, Dean could still see the pain in the young woman's eyes.

"That's what everyone keeps telling me, I'm lucky to be alive. But you strike me as straight shooter, Dean Winchester, so you tell me; do I look lucky to you?"

Dean was loathed to admit it, but she didn't. She appeared to be about Sam's age which meant in another world she probably would have been finishing college and looking forward to starting her career. With her looks she would have had her pick of the guys and down the road she would most likely have done the husband and kids thing. But as a cripple with a parent who would be dependent on her for the rest of his life, he wondered what future she was facing now.

"You're one the luckiest people alive," he said, determined not to add to her obvious pain. "As hunters, we look death in the face everyday so since you're breathing I'd say you're lucky."

"You're good, Winchester," Holly snickered, but this time amusement sounded genuine.

"The best," Dean rejoined without missing a beat. "And don't you forget it."

Gratitude for the response was never verbalized, but Dean could detect it in the way Holly seemed to let guard down after that.

"Whose privacy would you like to invade today?" she asked pushing papers and books aside to make room on the desk. The businesslike tone was back but without the curtness.

"I need to get into some medical records."

"Whose?"

"Stanford University."

"Give me five minutes," Holly said lowering herself into a huge leather chair.

"I need some perimeters," Holly positioned her laptop in front of her. "Students or faculty?"

"Students, the cohort that would have entered in 2001."

"OK."

Holly spent several minutes banging on the keyboard. Dean watched the screen flash as she went from what seemed like one encrypted site to the next.

"Alright," she said eventually. "You're in."

"Great."

Dean moved towards the desk as Holly tried to get up. A loud beep from the computer had her turning her attention back to the screen.

"Oh crap," she hissed.

"What, we can't get in?"

'No, we're in but they have a tracer on this."

"What the hell is that?"

"That means they'll be able to tie this little cyber break-in back to my PC."

"So we can't get access?"

"Who do you think I am a lightweight?" Holly tapped rapidly on the keyboard. "I've disabled it but not for long. You have twenty minutes so read fast."

"Thanks."

"I've set a timer, it'll beep when time is up and then you'll be automatically logged out of the site. Got it?"

"Got it."

"OK," Holly heaved herself up from the chair and backed away from the desk. "It's all yours. Just type in the names of whoever you want to know about."

"Thanks."

Dean waited until Holly was out of the room and the door had closed behind him before he sat at the desk. Inhaling deeply he entered Sam's name in the requisite slot and then a series of tabs appeared on the screen. When Dean scanned the titles, "Psychiatric History" jumped out at him. He clicked that tab and a pull down menu appeared. Knowing his time was limited; he selected "Attending Psychiatrist's Confidential Notes" and began to read.

**September 2001**

It has been extremely difficult to treat Sam Winchester, mainly because, while he has been fairly straight forward about his symptoms in general, he has not been nearly as forthcoming about the circumstances which led to his condition.

The patient is suffering from Acute Eruptive Anxiety, (AEA) a condition which generally occurs due to continued repression of normal reactions to consistent exposure to trauma. He has been experiencing severe and debilitating panic attacks which are generally brought on by triggers but I have been unsuccessful in identifying the nature of those triggers.

When the attacks occur the patient reports that he suffers from shortness of breath, rapid heart palpitations, confusion and a crippling sense of fear which on different occasions has caused him to faint, fall prone or cower in a fetal position. Due to the severe nature of the Patient's symptoms I prescribed Intramol, a fast-acting anti-anxiety drug, which is considered the strongest medication in its class.

In my experience, medication can only address the physiological symptoms of this kind of illness and therefore it must be combined with some form of psychotherapy to achieve consequential results. I am therefore recommending that the Patient attend therapy sessions at least twice per week.

**November 2001**

For several weeks, I have tried to utilize talk therapy to get to the root cause of the Patient's condition but the Patient is unwilling to discuss any events, occurrences or activities which may have continually subjected him to a high level of stress, threat, danger or trauma.

By all appearances, the Patient is a functional eighteen year old. His IQ tests indicate a high level of intelligence and his transcripts prior to admission to University reveal that he was a straight A student throughout High School and his grades since enrollment at Stanford have consistently been in the top 10 percentile of his freshman cohort.

Socially he seems well adjusted, although he has repeatedly said he does not have a lot of friends. However, he is polite, reasonably friendly and seems to get along well with people.

His High School records indicate that he was consistently mobile throughout his childhood and adolescence. The grades come from a myriad of sources, including several High Schools and various summer remedial programs.

He says very little about his childhood although he does admit there was no family home and as such he moved around a lot. He said his mother died when he was six months old and he was raised by his father and an older brother. There was visible sadness in his voice and manner when he mentioned his family, particularly when he spoke about his brother. From the little he did say it appears the Patient and his sibling were particularly close and he credits his older brother largely with his upbringing.

Beyond those few details, the Patient refuses to answer any questions about his family. However, his demeanor when speaking of them, along with his intense secretiveness about them has led me to conclude that his relationship with his father and perhaps his sibling are somehow interwoven with the issues or incidents that are at the root of the Patients condition.

**December 2001**

While I have repeatedly explained that anything said in the course of therapy is strictly confidential and can only serve to help with recovery, the Patient has remained insistent that he will continue to treat his condition with medication only.

Intramol is producing the desirable results, as the Patient reports whenever it is taken at the onset of a panic attack the symptoms are alleviated speedily. Due to the strength of the drug the Patient continues to be under strict and consistent supervision.

**March 2002**

The Patient has now been under psychiatric care for more than six months and his condition has improved tremendously. The panic attacks have gradually declined in frequency and he reports that none have occurred in the last month. The Patient admits that since moving to the Stanford campus and inhabiting a new and different environment, the attacks have lessened in severity and also in frequency. He has not had to use the Intramol in several weeks as he has suffered no attacks.

The pace and nature of the Patient's recovery, in his new environment, is, in my opinion, further evidence that his family situation was a causal factor in his developing Acute Eruptive Anxiety. In the absence of definitive evidence from the patient himself, I have formed this conclusion based on my prior exposure to this condition and its manifestations.

AEA is a rare condition to find among the Stanford University student population; however, Sam Winchester is not unique. I previously treated a nineteen year old male who had migrated to the US from Bosnia, a country that had been involved in a bitter civil war for several years. In therapy, I learned that he had been trained for combat since the age of twelve and was killing men at war by the time he was fifteen. Most of his family died in the war and he was plagued with guilt over his failure to protect them. By the time he and his grandmother came to the US as refugees he was suffering from AEA. That notwithstanding he was also a gifted student who received scholarships to both Stanford and Brown. It was while he was a student at Stanford that his condition was diagnosed and treated.

Another patient I encountered was a former member of a Los Angeles based gang. Every male in his family for the last three generations has been part of this gang and without any choice in the matter he was initiated at age 12. The lifestyle exposed him to continuous threat and danger, however, his loyalty to his "brothers" has never wavered.

What led him to leave the gang was his inability to cope with the constant fear for his own life, as well as the weight of the responsibility of protecting his fellow gang members. In therapy he spoke repeatedly about the high importance his gang placed on loyalty and watching one another's backs. He was overwhelmed by the fear that any of his "brothers" would have been killed on his watch.

While he managed to escape the gang he remained loyal to the brotherhood and would not even mention the name of the gang or the names of any individual members throughout his therapy because of a gripping fear that the information would get into the wrong hands.

I have used my experience with these two patients to form tentative conclusions about Sam Winchester's condition. I am of course mostly ignorant of the circumstances of his upbringing but I suspect he was initially exposed to some form of life threatening activity or practice at a very early age and this exposure most likely continued throughout his adolescence. From his refusal to speak about his family I suspect they were most likely involved in this activity and his own participation was not a matter of choice.

I will speculate even further that the Patient was probably unable to exhibit any signs of fear despite being terrified by aspects of the situation. The psychological impact of having to put on a brave face under life threatening circumstance would have led to considerable emotional repression. The fear, terror, anxiety and other negative emotions would have been suppressed as a survival tactic.

However, as we have long discovered in the practice of psychiatry, repressed emotions will eventually manifest in some form. In Sam Winchester's case this deep-seated fear has found expression in the crippling panic attacks which have been plaguing him until recently.

Further support for my conclusions about the cause of his condition is the fact that since coming to Stanford and removing himself from his prior situation, the Patient has been improving steadily and is now mostly symptom free. I note that he has opted not to leave the campus during school breaks and says he has not had any form of contact with his family since coming to school. I therefore concluded that the Patient has also come to the realization that many, if not all of the casual factors which trigger and accelerate his condition are tied to his prior living situation.

Based on this, I made the strong recommendation that, for his continued recovery and in the interest of his overall mental health and wellness, the Patient should sever contact with his family. The patient's response was –

The alarm on the timer beeped loudly and the screen went blank.

"Damn!" Dean shouted, slamming his fist down on the desk.

The outburst brought Holly hustling back to the study.

"What happened?" she asked swinging vigorously to get to the desk.

"I got kicked out," Dean yelled barely resisting the urge to toss the laptop across the room.

"I told you the clock was ticking," Holly shook her head. "I couldn't take any chances. If they tracked this to me I'd be permanently out of business."

"Look, I got cut off before I finished reading some critical information, you gotta get me back in."

"I can't. The break-in would have triggered all their information security systems; right now the Stanford database is the digital equivalent of Fort Knox. I can't take any chances."

"Well could you try from another computer?"

"It wouldn't make a difference. They'd have sealed everything off by now and if we try to get in they'd be onto us in seconds. And if you didn't know, database hacking is a federal crime so I don't push my luck."

"But I need more answers."

"Sorry pal, but whatever you got is all you're gonna get through this route. So if you need more answers you've gotta find them some other way."

She was right; Dean decided as he pulled out his wallet and settled his bill. Within minutes he was putting the Impala in gear and heading down Holly's driveway. Before he turned out onto the road, Dean glanced at his rearview mirror and saw Holly standing on her front porch, observing his departure. Away from her heated gaze, he took one last look at her left stump.

Hunting left scars. And now it was time to find out just how badly it had scarred his brother.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	5. Confrontation

**Author's Notes: **Thanks to everyone who reviewed and alerted.

Special thanks to my beta, Ericka Jane who didn't even flinch at my unreasonable deadline.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. This is not for profit, this is just for fun.

* * *

**FIVE**

**Confrontation**

Dean's attempt to get answers from Sam left him with a better understanding of why good intentions paved the road to hell.

Completely in shock after reading his brother's medical records, Dean tried to sort through his emotional confusion as he drove back to Bobby's house. Whenever Sam was sick or in any kind of pain Dean's paternal feelings for his little brother always came out with a vengeance. The need to comfort and sooth a hurting Sam was almost as instinctive as breathing. So it pained him deeply to think of his sibling suffering the anguish of a mental illness when he wasn't there to help. And now that he'd seen how harrowing Sam's panic attacks could be, it hurt Dean to his core to think of his little brother enduring that kind of mental and physical agony alone.

Dean arrived at Bobby's place to find Sam pacing impatiently in the living room. Given the nature of his mission, Dean had been anxious to avoid any questions before he left to see Holly Whitfield. So he'd stuck a short note on the fridge and snuck out early while Sam was still deep in his Intramol assisted sleep. But now his brother was wide awake and had clearly been waiting anxiously for Dean's return.

"Where the hell have you been?" Sam demanded as soon as Dean walked in.

"I had to take a little road trip," Dean said calmly.

"And did your phone take a trip in the opposite direction? I've called you at least a dozen times."

"I forgot to charge it last night. It died soon after I left out."

"Well don't even take your jacket off," Sam instructed. "Bobby called while you were gone. He threw us a job and we need to get on it now."

"No," Dean kept his tone even. "Right now, we need to talk."

Sam looked closely at his brother to ensure it was Dean and not a shapeshifter.

"Earth to Dean," he snickered mirthlessly. "I just said we have a job and you wanna talk?"

"Yeah. So the job's gonna have to wait." Dean dropped down on the sofa and patted the space beside him. "Sit down, Sam."

Knowing Dean would most likely want to discuss the events of the last few days, Sam refused to comply.

"If this is about yesterday, or any of that stuff, I don't think we need to discuss it again," he said hoping to shut his brother down. "I'm fine and I'm ready to get back on the road."

"First of all," Dean began in a tone he hoped conveyed patience and reasonableness, "I want you to stop lying to me. And then," his voice grew a little more strident when he saw Sam's angry blush, "I want you to tell me what's really going on with you."

"I told you already," Sam hissed, flustered at his brother's insistence. "I've been stressed, that's all. Now I know I freaked out a little on the hunt yesterday but ..."

"Freaked out a little? Sam you had a full blown panic attack that registered at ten point O on the Richter scale."

"You're exaggerating," Sam waved Dean off and resumed his pacing. "I know you're worried about me but I'm fine."

Dean could only shake his head as he watched his little brother. Sam was practically radiating agitation and his speech was littered with denial.

When had it come to this between them? When did Sam start keeping secrets about something as crucial as his mental health?

"Dude," Dean appealed still determined to have a civilized conversation. "Could you just cut out the going back and forth and sit down and talk to me for a minute?"

"About what, Dean? We have a job, we should be hitting to road."

"The condition you're in, the only thing you're hitting is your bed. You need to calm down so we can talk."

"I told you, I'm fine," Sam turned on his brother. "When are you gonna stop with all this overprotective crap? I know you've been responsible for me since I was born, but you can drop it now. In case you forgot I've been on my own for the last four years and I managed to survive."

"Funny you should mention that," Dean took the opening. "Those four years are what I want to talk to you about."

"Dean we've been through this before," Sam threw up his hands and fixed his brother with a scowl. "I was a scholarship student without a penny to my name. I worked my butt off to keep my funding and I was lucky enough to meet Jess, and that made it bearable. End of story."

The omission of the most critical information about the Stanford sojourn had Dean grappling with both hurt and anger.

"You left out the best part of the story, Sammy," he said bitterly.

"Which is what?" Sam rose to meet the challenge he heard in his brother's voice. "When I watched Jess burn to death?"

"No," Dean hissed, determined not to be sidetracked. "When you were a psyche patient diagnosed with Acute Eruptive Anxiety and put on Intramol."

Throughout his life Sam had known terror; but when those words came out of his brother's mouth he was filled with such devastating dread he thought his heart would give out. When he looked at Dean and saw what he assumed was disapproval in Dean's eyes, Sam's lungs constricted and he struggled to breath.

Heaving hard, Sam turned away from his brother's penetrating stare, striding across the living room to put some distance between them.

Instantly Dean was on his feet and moving towards Sam, cursing himself for being so insensitive. He hadn't meant to bring up Sam's condition in an accusatory way; he'd wanted Sam to open up to him so he could help. But instead of turning to him, Sam was walking away just like he'd done four years ago.

"Sam," Dean pleaded, taking his brother by the shoulders.

Sam could only meet Dean's gaze briefly before pulling away. He had tried so hard to keep his condition secret but now his brother knew. How the hell could he ever look Dean in the face again?

"How do you know?" Sam asked bowing his face into his open palms.

"That doesn't matter," Dean tried to reach out again. "But now that I know, I can do something about it."

But Sam wasn't going to let big brother ride to rescue.

"How did you find out?" he muttered in bewilderment, shrinking away from his brother.

"That's not the point Sam."

"That is the freaking point! _How_?"

Dean acquiesced when he realized he was dealing with a near hysterical little brother.

"I knew you were popping something," he explained. "So I searched your stuff and I found the Intramol."

The raw hurt on Sam's face was like a fist to Dean's gut.

"You searched my things?" Sam asked incredulously.

"I had to," Dean insisted. "I knew whatever was up with you was major and you wouldn't tell me. Then after I found the Intramol and I realized what people take it for, I did a little digging and I found out everything."

"Digging?" Sam said, as if it was the first time he'd heard the word. "Where?"

Dean took a second to brace for the reaction and then jumped in head first. "I hacked your medical records at Stanford."

Sam's hurt morphed into unadulterated shock.

_"What?" _he whispered, horrified.

"You heard me," Dean responded softly.

"You read my medical files? You violated my privacy?"

"Yes I did," Dean said defiantly. "That's the lengths I had to go to because I knew something was seriously wrong with you and wouldn't tell me the truth."

"I have a right to decide what I want to reveal about my life and who I reveal it to."

"I don't play by those rules when it comes to your wellbeing. You have no idea how much it scares me when you get one of those attacks. It's like you're gonna die right in front of me and there's nothing I can do to help."

"So that's what this is about; you always being the one to solve my problems? Dean, this wasn't some stupid nightmare or a bad flu. You couldn't just make this go away by tucking me in and giving me my kiddie Tylenol."

"I could have helped," Dean insisted.

"I was handling it on my own."

"You were having panic attacks every ten seconds. How is that handling it?"

"I got it under control once before and I was going to do it again. I just needed time."

"Time for what; to take more pills? Sam I read your medical records your Doctor was convinced that medication alone wasn't going to solve your problem. Those notes said you spent so many years repressing all your fears it was like you were sitting on a time bomb. And I know it all comes back to hunting but what I don't get is why you didn't say anything when these panic attacks started happening in the first place."

"Who was I gonna talk to," Sam asked incredulously. "Dad?"

"No," Dean shook his head as he grew flustered. "Me. Why didn't you come to me Sam? I'm your big brother. I would have taken care of you."

Once again Sam was turning to walk away. Dean didn't get it; and he didn't know how to explain.

"This wasn't a hunt. This was much bigger than anything I've ever had to face. This was like having a monster inside and no matter what I did, it wouldn't go away."

"That's all the more reason why you should have let me help you, Sam. Don't you understand that I have your back in everything not just on a hunt?"

"This was different," Sam insisted.

"No it wasn't. And I don't understand why you thought the best way to handle it was to isolate yourself from your family. Why didn't you just tell me?"

"For the same reason I didn't tell Dad. It went against everything being a Winchester stood for. We were hunters, we weren't afraid of anything. How could I ever look John Winchester in the face and tell him I was wetting myself at the thought of having to do my job?"

"So it was better for you to suffer alone? I cannot believe you were going through all of that and you felt like you couldn't talk to me. I could have helped."

"No you couldn't. Dad would have despised me for being weak and you would have sided with him."

"Is that what you really think, Sam?"

"Yes," Sam said. "So I handled it by myself."

"No. You ran away from the problem and then tried to sweep it under the rug. But here's some truth, little brother, these things have a way of coming back to haunt you and judging from the shape you're in now, I'd say the ghosts from your past have got you cornered."

"You're wrong, Dean. I beat this thing before and I'll beat it again."

"Sam, you don't have to do this alone. Now that I know, I can help."

There were a lot of things Sam needed from Dean but pity wasn't one of them.

"If I had wanted your help, I would have told you what was going on. But you couldn't even allow me an inch of privacy or even a shred of dignity, could you?"

"Is that what this is about Sam? You don't want to look bad?"

"Isn't that what we had drilled into our heads our whole lives? Don't look weak, don't show fear, stare death in face and don't even flinch?"

"Yes, that's what we were taught but that doesn't make it right."

"That's what I thought before but now I know Dad was right all along. I only have one goal in life now and that's to find the thing that killed Jess and Mom, and wipe it off the face of this earth. And until I do that I intend to take out every evil thing that comes at me."

"Look at you," Dean said with wonder. "You're shaking like a leaf and you can't even aim a weapon. You're a wreck Sam, and until you deal with your condition I'm putting you on the injured list."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means you're off the job; and you're staying off until we get your AEA under control."

"You can't tell me what to do anymore."

"Sam, I'm not letting you go out there like this."

"When are you going to get it into your head? I don't need your permission."

Dean met his brother's eyes and saw the fear and the pain Sam was trying to subvert with stubbornness and defiance.

"In the condition you're in, you're a liability to yourself and everyone around you."

"And hasn't that always been the case, Dean?" Sam said bitterly. "Haven't I always been the weak link in the Winchester army?"

"If you believe that, then you've really lost your mind."

"I knew you'd say that sooner or later. I knew if you found out what was happening to me you'd call me a freak."

"Did I ever use that word or any other word like it?"

"You didn't have to but I know that's what you meant. And if you think you can get me to go on some kind of sick leave by saying you can't rely on, then you've got another guess coming."

"Everything I've said has been out of concern for you. Don't twist my words."

"You think I can't manage the job, just watch me."

Sam grabbed his duffle and stalked into Bobby's kitchen. He returned shortly with the keys to one of the clunkers Bobby usually let them drive when the Impala was out of commission.

"Sam," Dean warned. "If you go a hunt in your condition, you're gonna get yourself killed."

Resentful and defiant, Sam faced his brother. "You and Dad always did underestimate me. I'll show you both."

When the door slammed and the car roared to life out in the front yard, Dean sank to his knees and covered his face with his hands.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	6. Tribulation

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone for the reviews and alerts, especially my anonymous reviewers who I cannot reply to directly.

Much and love and gratitude to my beta Ericka Jane. You're the best.

******Warning:** Mental health issues.

******Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. This is not for profit, this is just for fun.

* * *

**SIX**

**Tribulation**

Sam's speedy exit had more to do with his desire to escape Dean's presence than his haste to undertake the pending hunt.

He couldn't stand his brother's penetrating stare for one second longer. Ironically, Dean had always teased Sam about the way his eyes displayed his emotions, but Sam had always felt his brother's own face was equally expressive. So much so that whenever they argued Sam often took his cues from the sentiments he reflected on his brother's features. On this occasion, those sentiments had been more than Sam could handle.

He'd seen Dean's fear and uncertainty, no doubt from the shocking discovery that Sam had kept such a serious medical condition secret for so long. He'd seen Dean's indignation at being denied a chance to play his divinely appointed role as Sam's savior. But he'd also seen the deep disappointment that a condition as belittling as mental illness had somehow managed to invade the invisible Winchester family.

Hunting may have been one of the most dangerous gigs around but John Winchester's boys should never be numbered among those who cracked under the pressure. And given the perils of the job, hunters were entitled to their coping mechanisms but anxiety and panic were definitely not on the approved list.

That fact wasn't lost on Sam, who had gone to great lengths to keep his condition secret from his family. At different times he had thought about opening up to Dean, but he'd never had the courage to go through with it. The shame and stigma were too overwhelming, even in the face of the security Sam had always felt in his relationship with Dean. Never mind that Dean had seen him through every conceivable physical illness, mental health issues were another matter entirely.

The summer Sam turned fifteen he and Dean had been on the road at a particularly miserable dive, and he'd caught the worse case of food poisoning imaginable. The sickness had wracked Sam, leaving him too weak to even clean himself up after its most violent manifestations. For three days Dean had been there, washing him off in the shower, changing his bed sheets and even changing his clothes when the situation required.

Sam had never been more aware of his own vulnerability than in those few days when there was hardly anything he could have done to help himself. He had been totally dependent on Dean and in spite of the unpleasant nature of Sam's illness, his brother hadn't baulked. There was always a comforting hand rubbing Sam's back to soothe him to sleep and a warm smile to greet whenever he woke up. A cool wash cloth would wipe his face when he broke out in a sweat and gentle fingers would stroke his hair comfortingly when the pain got the better of him.

So even though he was mortified by the embarrassing elements of his illness, Sam emerged from the ordeal convinced that there wasn't anything he couldn't share with his brother. If Dean could love him through him through the grossest infirmities, he would love him through anything.

However, that sense of security evaporated two years later when Sam realized that what he had desperately hoped were incidental panic attacks were actually evidence of a chronic condition. When he could no longer deny he had a serious problem, Sam vowed he would never tell Dean. He just couldn't bring himself to look his big brother in eye and admit he had head issues.

Yet now, in spite of the great lengths Sam had gone to in order to keep his secret, the truth was out. Sam was several miles down the road when the implications of the confrontation he'd just had with his brother hit him, and he pulled off the road. Now that Dean knew about his illness it would only be a matter of time before his father found out as well. Physically weakened by the thought, Sam leaned his head against the steering wheel and tried to slow his racing heart.

If it had been difficult to deal with Dean, Sam knew it would be damn near impossible to face his father. John Winchester had invested his whole life in training his sons to be fearless in the face of any kind of evil. Sam knew when his father found out that for all his efforts Sam had cracked under pressure, he would write Sam off for good.

When he considered the impossibly high standard of mental and physical fortitude set by his father and brother, Sam knew there was simply no room for psychological disorders in the Winchester family. It was this conclusion that had driven him to flee to Stanford four years earlier. He knew he would never have the courage to get the help he needed for his problem if he stayed with his father and brother. And although the separation had been fraught with difficulty, there was no denying it had been instrumental in saving his sanity.

So right there, in a broken-down, borrowed car, in what seemed like the middle of nowhere, on the side of a nameless road, Sam realized if he wanted to help himself, he would have to cut ties with his family ... again. Once the decision was made, he knew he'd have to put distance between himself and Dean if he wanted to resist the temptation of running back to his brother.

He pointed the car back out onto the road and was heading for the nearest highway when his phone rang. A quick glance at the handset revealed it was Caleb, the hunter who was setting up the job Bobby had called Sam about earlier. Sam cursed softly, realizing he'd totally forgotten he'd committed himself and Dean to the hunt.

"Are you boys coming or what?" the veteran hunter asked when Sam answered the call.

"I'm sorry, man," Sam said trying to think quickly. "I had some delays."

"So how long before you two get here?" Caleb wasn't interested in back story. "Well?" he prompted when Sam didn't respond quickly enough.

"Gimme about an hour and half," Sam said switching lanes so he could head in a different direction. "And I'm coming alone."

"Alone? Where's your brother."

"Sick like a dog," Sam said with what he hoped sounded like sympathy. "He's caught a bad flu bug and it's put him flat on his back."

"Shame. I'd prefer if it was three of us."

"I can handle a hunt without my brother, Caleb," Sam rejoined with a little too much heat.

"If you say so," Sam could hear the shrug in Caleb's voice. "Get here soon. We need to be set up for this thing before nightfall and we've lost most of the day."

"I'll get there as fast as I can," Sam said before clicking off.

He dropped his foot on the accelerator and tried to ignore the sense of apprehension swirling in his gut. He remembered what Dean had said, about him not being in any shape to hunt right now. Almost immediately, Sam dismissed the thought. He was through taking orders from Dean; he would handle things his way.

* * *

By the time Dean realized paralysis was not an optimal response to his brother's abrupt departure, it was too late. Although he'd practically collapsed with exasperation when Sam blew out of the house, Dean eventually picked himself up and headed out after him. However, Sam had already gotten a considerable head start so the search proved futile.

Defeated but determined, Dean returned to Bobby's house and hit the phones. Sam had mentioned a hunt but apart from saying Bobby had thrown him the job Dean had no other information about it. Dean knew Bobby was way out of town on a different gig but if he got hold of him he could at least get a location.

He left several messages on Bobby's voicemail before admitting that course of action was equally useless. One message would be enough for Bobby to touch base as soon as he was able. Then, although he knew it was pointless, Dean had tried to call Sam. Predictably, there was no response. He had resigned himself to waiting it out when he received a call from Caleb that set him on edge.

"Dean," the veteran hunter sounded surprised to hear him. "You don't sound sick."

"That's because I'm not."

"Well to hear Sam tell it, I thought a flu bug had you laid up."

"You've spoken to Sam?"

"Spoken to him, we're here on a stakeout together."

"You mean Sam is with you now?"

"Yeah, that's what I was calling you about. He seems a little ... off."

"Off?"

"Yeah, he showed up here looking like the devil had chased him all the way, and when I asked for you he said you were too sick to make it."

'I'm not sick," Dean informed him.

"Well, I can hear as much now, but I don't know if I'd say the same thing about your brother."

"He hasn't been so well," Dean said, choosing his words carefully.

"I figured that out," Caleb agreed. "And now we're here hiding out trying to catch a Hydra, but I just get the feeling the last place he needs to be right now is on a hunt. I think you should come and get him."

Before Caleb couldn't even finish, Dean was out of the house and climbing into the impala.

"Just give me directions," he said gunning the engine. "I'll get there as fast as I can."

Dean pushed the vehicle as hard as he could, keeping an eye out for the cops as he demolished the speed limits. The location Caleb gave him was a lake side retreat about two hours away but he didn't intend to take that long.

From experience, Dean knew that a Hydra was a water-based creature which tended to attack communities near rivers or lakes. Dean had hunted one with his father while Sam was at Stanford, and the bastards were not to be taken lightly. A spaced-out Sam, battling anxiety, would be no match for this creature who used surprise as a lethal weapon.

After an hour of driving, Caleb called again. When Dean answered the phone he could hear the sounds of chaos in the background.

"Don't bother coming to the lake," Caleb shouted into the phone.

"Why?" Dean demanded, panic rising in his chest.

"The Hydra jumped us."

"Is Sam OK?" It was the only thing that mattered to Dean.

"No," Caleb's response hit like a kick to Dean's stomach. "I don't know what happened, but it's like he froze in the middle of the attack and the bastard got him."

Involuntarily, a loud gasp escaped from Dean.

"Is he OK?" It was still Dean's only concern.

"It got him pretty bad," Caleb was obviously trying to soften the sting of the bad news. "We've had to call an ambulance, they're taking him to the hospital now."

"What hospital?"

"They said Lakeside General. The paramedic said it's not too far from here. You need to meet us there."

The final instruction was completely unnecessary. Dean was already pulling off the road to use his phone to get directions.

* * *

Dean got to the hospital a few minutes after the ambulance. When he saw his brother being offloaded from the vehicle, he hurriedly parked the impala in the first available spot and rushed to Sam's side. He had to swallow hard to keep from gasping when he saw the fresh blood seeping through Sam's clothes.

"Excuse me sir," a male paramedic said. "You'll have to stand aside."

"Like hell," Dean shouted. "This is my little brother."

"Dean?" Sam called out in disbelief.

"Right here, Sammy," Dean said running along with the procession as it advanced through the doors of the emergency room.

"How?" Sam wondered.

"Don't I always know when you need me?"

"What do we have here?" A young male doctor asked as he and a nurse with a clipboard met the motley crew.

"I'm really not sure," the lead paramedic informed them. "Looks like some kind of wild animal got to him. He was out by the lake where they've had those attacks."

"Do you have any allergies sir?" the doctor asked.

"No," Dean and Sam answered simultaneously.

"Are you on any medication?"

"No," Sam was as emphatic as he could be in his weakened state.

"That's not true," Dean heard himself saying.

Dean saw the plea as he met Sam's eyes but this wasn't the time to keep secrets. Who knew what drugs they would pump into Sam in the emergency room and what if they gave him something that reacted badly with the Intramol? Everything Dean had read said that medicine was major stuff and he knew enough about pharmacology to make him unwilling to take any risks.

"He's on Intramol," Dean revealed, looking at the Doctor so he wouldn't have to see the hurt and betrayal on his brother's face. He didn't care if Sam thought he was disloyal, Dean wouldn't take chances when Sam's health was on the line.

"Intramol?" the Doctor didn't even try hiding his shock. Beside him the nurse who had been busy taking notes almost dropped her clipboard. "Is he a psychiatric patient?"

"No, I'm not!'" Sam practically cursed, as if the very idea was ludicrous.

"But Intramol is only prescribed if you're under the care of a psychiatrist. Why were you taking this medication?"

"I wasn't," Sam insisted.

Dean knew it was up to him to avert what would surely be a bumpy ride down a very slippery slope.

"I can explain," he tried, hoping to shut Sam up.

"Explain what?" the doctor was growing impatient. "The answer is either yes or no."

"He was being treated for AEA," Dean said, figuring he had to give at least some information to prevent the situation from spiraling out of control.

"Acute Eruptive Anxiety?" the Doctor spelled out. "That explains the Intramol. O.K, I'm going to need the name of his psychiatrist." He turned to the nurse. "You stay and get the details, right now we've got to examine him and patch him up."

The doctor turned briefly to Dean before preparing to depart with Sam. "When we're finished he goes to recovery and then to the psych ward until we can get some information on the status of his AEA treatment."

"No!" Sam screamed, moving his legs over the side of the gurney in an attempt to stand.

Immediately the paramedic and his assistant moved forward to restrain him.

"I think we need a tranquilizer," the doctor said. "Let's get him into the ER now."

"Wait a minute," Dean tried to intervene. "What do you mean psych ward? My brother's not a psych patient."

"But you just told me he's being treated for AEA."

"He was, in the past. But I never said he was crazy. I'm not gonna let you lock him away like he's some lunatic."

"Excuse me sir, but if you try to interfere with a medical procedure I'm going to have to call the police."

"Dean," Sam called desperately as the two men held him down.

"Let go of him," Dean turned on the paramedics. "No one is taking my brother to any psych ward. He's got some wounds that need treating; that's all."

"Sir," the doctor said tersely. "The paramedics just said he was the victim of some kind of attack. A trauma like that is bound to create complications for someone with his condition. Now, please stop interfering or I'll have security throw you out."

"You listen to me," Dean stepped up to bring his face squarely in line with the doctor's. "You're gonna treat my brother for his injuries and that's all."

"Your brother is suffering from a very serious medical condition," the doctor informed Dean. "So you need to just calm down and allow qualified professionals to take care of him."

"Qualified my butt," Dean shouted. "All you're gonna do is put him a straightjacket and pump him full of drugs. So if you even think of sending him off to some loony bin, when I get done with you you're the one who's gonna need treatment from qualified medical professionals."

"Security," the doctor shouted, signaling urgently with both hands. "Escort this man out."

Almost immediately, two guards were grabbing hold of Dean and pulling him back. Before Dean could react to the restraint, the medical team rushed off with the gurney and Sam disappeared from his sight.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED**


End file.
